Ten Times as Much

I was used to maintaining a very predictable schedule in the U.S. Those of you who know me well know that to be a vast understatement.

5.30 AM Toast, orange juice in my kitchen.

6.30 AM Coffee and paperwork and writing at Northampton Coffee.

9.00 AM My office at Yes Computers to work on book designs.

12.00 MD Home for lunch.

1.30 PM Yes Computers and more design work.

4.00 PM Home, dinner.

6.00 PM A walk, a run or volleyball.

10.00 PM Bedtime.

On the other hand here in Callanca one wakes up in the morning and has absolutely no idea what to expect from the day. Planning is a laughable undertaking. A typical day is a day in which nothing typical happens. A day in Callanca might go like this:

7.00 AM You get up in the morning and go downstairs to eat breakfast. Your host mother has decided to make papitas and tallerines to sell on the street to make some extra money. You eat a potato and noodles for breakfast.

8.00 AM You ride your bike to one of the schools in town to talk to the director and the founder, a Peruvian now living in the States, who’s in town for a visit. The director has assured you that the founder will provide funding for one of your projects, a trip to an art fair in Ecuador for artisans studying at the school.

However, the founder’s mother is with him and doesn’t want him to give you the money. The school is in the middle of a building project—new classrooms—and the project has tapped out the founder. So the mother is doing everything she can to keep you and the founder apart. When you attempt to converse with him she brings over visitors that you simply must meet at that exact moment. When the subject of artisans comes up she tries to divert the conversation to artisans she knows and suggests that you all go to visit one of them. Right now. This minute.

9.30 AM Finally you, the director and the founder lock yourselves in the director’s office and start to talk about the funds. But just as you’re about to close the deal the founder’s mother shows up, banging on the door and shouting that a child has fainted. You aren’t particulary worried since you figure that this is but another ruse perpetrated with the intent to separate you and the founder. However, when everyone rushes to the child’s classroom you find that a child is, in fact, ill—pale and weak and trembling.

Since there are no ambulances in Callanca you carry the child to the founder’s Hyundai van, everyone piles in, and the founder drives the child to the posta de salud—the health post. Someone has called the child’s father and he arrives at the post. The mother had been called to the school previously and had arrived with us in the van.

The health post is 30 years old. Which doesn’t sound all that old but for an adobe building held together with cane that’s ancient. The ceiling of the consultorio where they take us to talk to the doctor is crooked and patched where it caved in last year.

The doctor questions and examines the child and finds nothing obviously wrong. He asks whether the child has eaten, if he’s seemed unusually tired lately, if he’s experienced any mental or emotional stress at home. He borrows your glucose test meter and tests the boy for hypoglycemia. Negative. The doctor writes up some orders for tests and says to take him to the emergency room in Chiclayo, the site of the nearest hospital.

11.00 AM Everyone piles in the van and the founder drives the child to the public hospital in Chiclayo. There are 30 or 40 people lined up at the emergency-room entrance and sitting on benches inside and outside. The founder hands the father 100 soles and the director of the school ushers the parents and child past the line and into the emergency room. She returns and you head back to the school. On the way, you stop at a bank in front of which all the moneychangers in Chiclayo do their trading. You park at the curb, the director rolls down a window, asks for the exchange rate, quibbles for a decimal point, and changes 4000 American dollars into soles for herself and the founder.

On the way back—in English so that the mother won’t interrrupt—you confirm with the founder the funding for the artisans’ trip to Ecuador.

1 PM Back at the school you’re expecting to make arrangements for receiving the money and then go home. Not a chance. Someone has cooked lunch and so you eat soup and ceviche with the director, the founder, his mother and one of the teachers. As you’re finally about to finish lunch, a local woman shows up with some pots, uncovers them, and begins to serve everyone a second lunch. She’s also come to ask a favor of the founder. You suspect that you’ve been kidnapped and parachuted into a scene from The Godfather. What happens next does nothing to quiet those suspicions.

You tell the founder that you absolutely have to go. You ask him to step outside and speak with you for a moment. Outside, near where the workers are constructing the new classrooms, you, the director and founder finally resolve the question of the funding. The founder descends a set of concrete stairs into the basement. The director motions for you to follow. In the basement, the founder pulls out his wallet and counts 1000 soles into your hand in 50s and 100s. You stuff the bills into your pocket. Sargent Shriver turns over in his grave.

And a postscript: They invite me out to dinner the following evening. Since the founder is busy during his brief visits to Callanca, I ask them to give me a call and and confirm that the dinner is still on and let me know what time to expect them. The next night they show up—the founder, his bodyguard, his mother and the school director—at my door unannounced at 8.00 PM, an hour after I’ve eaten. The founder asks if it’s OK if we stop in Chiclayo at a clinic to see his father. He’s brought his father with him from the States for prostate surgery. It’s cheaper here.

We park in front the clinic at 8.30 and the founder and the bodyguard go in. The mother, the director and I stay in the car and talk. For an hour. The founder and his bodyguard finally return, saying that the father is being impossible and that the nurses are at the point of tossing him out the window. As we’re about to leave the clinic and go someplace for dinner the founder’s cellphone rings. It’s the nurses. The father is going berserk, they need help.

The founder and the bodyguard go back upstairs. An hour passes. Two. The founder’s mother and the director go to sleep. I stay awake only because I don’t like the looks of the neighborhood, especially at this hour and with the bodyguard upstairs keepig the founder’s old man pinned to his hospital bed. Just as I’m about to switch on the ignition, close the windows and lock the doors, the founder returns. He’s left his bodyguard upstairs to deal with the old man.

We finally eat dinner at 11.00 PM. I’d eaten before I left Callanca but now I’m hungry again.

Things got a little better after that. The next time I visited the school they handed me a document to sign acknowledging that I’d received funds from the Foundation that runs the school. So Sargent Shriver can rest again in peace. And it turned out that the kid only had the measles. There’d been an outbreak at the school a few weeks earlier. We should’ve known.

After 6 months in the Peace Corps, I have one piece of unsolicited advice for anyone still reading this: you’re capable of doing about ten times as much as you think you can do.

Where It Hurts

Last week we baptized a house. Marlene, the oldest daughter of a neighbor’s family, built a new house a few doors down from her family and is moving her bodega, turkeys and the office of her sister Manuela’s obstetrician’s practice into their new headquarters. Since two businesses will share the house, two different blessing ceremonies took place. I was invited to be the padrino (godfather) for the blessing of the obstetrician’s office.

Not just anyone can baptize a house so they had to bring in a professional, Paola, from Monsefú. They also invited many guests, among them two of the four brothers in the family and their wives and children. One of the brothers has three daughters that everyone calls “the gringas.” I’d previously attempted to elicit explanations. Was their mother a gringa? Had one of their grandparents been a gringo and had they inherited a recessive gene for blue eyes or blond hair? It turned out that the three daughters are albinas.

Marlene and Manuela provide much of the basic medical care for Callanca. Marlene studied pharmacology and sells a variety of medicines in her bodega. In Perú you don’t need a prescription for anything. You can get codeine, antibiotics, syringes, heart and high-blood-pressure medications, viagra—anything—just for the asking. Marlene and Manuela also administer injections, stitch up wounds and offer other essential medical services at a lower cost than the “posta” or medical post, which is often closed when people need it most. Marlene and Manuela are on call twenty-four hours a day. All you have to do is tap on the window of the bodega with a coin as if you wanted an Inca Kola or half a kilo of lard and tell them where it hurts.

Whereas in the U.S. all people do is hang up a framed, cross-stitched “God Bless This Home” fetish and figure that will get the job done, in Perú the process of securing such a blessing is much more formal and interesting. Paola placed a small, clear glass pitcher containing water and cruda, a sweetly fragrant wildflower, on the counter of the apothecary where Marlene would be doing business. She faced the pitcher with her prayer book and we, the visitors, crowded in behind her. She read a formal blessing from the book and paused occasionally for us to repeat pasages. We sang several verses of a psalm dedicated to Santa María Auxiliadora.

The godparents of Marlene’s bodega were asked to take the pitcher of water, turn the cruda plants upside down in liquid, and use the flowers to spinkle holy water along the baseboards and in the corners of the rooms. We repeated this procedure—the blessings, the song and the sprinkling of the holy water—in Manuela’s consultorio. This time I was the godfather so I did the sprinkling of the holy water. It’s easy to see why they chose cruda as the plant with which to perform this blessing or purification. Its smell puts to shame any incense whose powers a priest might’ve brought to bear upon the situation.

Previously I’d noticed a plastic bag containing a small bottle of liquid hanging from the lintel of the entrance to the apothecary. It turned out to be champagne. The three godparents were invited to carry out the last step in the blessing ritual. Marlene handed me a small hammer and asked me to strike the bottle once—but not with enough force to break it. When I did so the bottle rang like a bell. Another of the godparents, Marlene’s sister-in-law, took the hammer, struck the bottle of champagne, and this time it broke. The plastic bag filled with foam. Marlene’s brother, my co-godfather, tore open a corner of the bag and a thin stream of champagne arc-ed out and wet the threshold of the entrance to Marlene’s new home. My guess would be that the hardcore version the ritual calls for the smashing of a bottle of champagne against the door jamb but that the ritual has been modernized a bit to allow for a speedier post-baptism cleanup.

After the blessing Marlene and her sisters served food and plenty of it—spicy garbanzo beans, chunks of pork and beef. Then turkey with a thick yellow sauce made of ground rice. Marlene passed around a decanter of her homemade wine and a two-liter bottle of Pepsi from the bodega. We talked and celebrated and congratulated Marlene. Her house is impressive by Callanca standards—two bedrooms, kitchen, dining room, sitting room and the large room that will house the bodega. It’s made of cement and painted bright pink. Black wrought-iron fences the entrance and protects the windows. The interior walls are painted in pastels—yellow, blue and pink. The floors are tile. For sure it wouldn’t pass code in the U.S. but here it’s a palace.

Maybe it had something to do with having visited Marlene´s apothecary and lay practitioner’s office, but I picked up my first parasite later in the week. It’s called a pique. It’s some form of louse that lives on pigs. But right now it’s embedded in the heel of my left foot. It resembles a callous or corn except with a dark brown spot at the crown which I take to be the pique itself. I’m supposed to visit the posta to have it removed.

A couple of the artesanas and I attended a marinera competition the weekend following the blessing of Marlene’s new house. The artesanas wanted to check out the elaborate dresses of the señoritas and see if they could maybe steal a few designs. The marinera is an intricate courtship dance particular to northern Perú. The couples dress as peasants and flirtatiously pursue and evade one another in circles of ever-diminishing diameter as the marinera progresses, both dances flourishing embroidered handkerchiefs and, in the case of the men, large palm-straw hats. It’s spectacular and the categories include all age groups from 5-year-olds to 75-year-olds. The atmosphere is a lot like a U.S. gymnastics competition. The mothers of the youngest participants are uniformly obnoxious, demanding and fanatical and the judges arbitrary, capricious and sour.

A full military brass band provided the musical acommpaniment and the participants competed in groups of three in front of six judges. The winners of each round advanced to the next. The competitions lasted from mid-afternoon until midnight. We stayed long enough to watch all the categories of contestants complete one round of qualifying. I took a lot of fotos so that the artesanas can copy the designs they liked.

I in fact went to the posta the Monday after the marinera competition and they removed the pique. The nurse asked for the largest needle available in the pharmacy, swabbed my heel with alchohol and began to dig at the hard mound of flesh in which the pique had embedded itself. If you’ve ever dug a splinter out of your finger with a needle then you have a good concept of what the procedure involved. Just imagine a much larger needle and a much livelier splinter. The nurse explained as she picked apart the insect and the bloody meat surrounding it that the piques penetrate your skin and begin to burrow, nourishing themselves with your flesh as they proceed deeper therein. Eventually they lay eggs and, if you do nothing to stop them, the eggs hatch and the next generation of piques starts to chow down. That’s why it’s important to remove not just the pique but all the surrounding tissue. When she’d finished, the nurse showed me the remains of the dismembered pique and the chunks of dead skin she’d removed, washed the wound with three or four kinds of antiseptics, and told me to wear socks and shoes next time.

Mañana

I’m much busier after two months in Callanca than I thought I’d be. Every day I have at least one formal meeting or appointment or other activity that I have to show up for on time and with something intelligent to say. Many days I have two or three or more such commitments and a couple of times I’ve had to decline one inviation because I’d already accepted another invitation for the same day and time. In Northampton, Massachusetts, where I lived before joining the Peace Corps, I used to get irritated that I was obliged to show up at the dentist’s office on an appointed day and at an appointed hour once a year for my checkup.

It’s not that I have more commitments than the average businessperson. In fact I have fewer. It’s that I’m used to having no scheduled activities at all and surprised that I have so many scheduled activities so soon.

Apparently I had to travel to another hemisphere in order to become an average American.

It seems that more and more average Americans like me are joining the Peace Corps. The Peace Corps is growing. Our “class”, Perú 15, consists of 51 volunteers. Perú 16 (there are two classes of trainees a year) consists of 78. Perú 18 will consist of 108 volunteers. The economy must be really bad in the U.S.

Callanca, where I’m working and living, is beginning to show another side to its character. You know how it is when you first arrive in a place—all things are possible and nothing disagreeable has happened to you and you have no enemies and foresee no obstacles that can’t be overcome with determination and a flourish of your Peace Corps business card. Wrong.

The restaurant run by the three sisters that I mentioned in my last entry never materialized. The brother of the three sisters decided to rent the restaurant to the owner of a chain of gas stations from Chiclayo who wants to get out of gas and into gastronomy. The evil brother waited to do this until the other brother in the family, a lawyer who helps protect the rights of the other family members, was out of town. The mother of the three sisters is co-owner of the property but doesn’t have the gumption or business sense to oppose a move like this and besides that she wants to keep peace in the family, of course. So the sisters are fucked and out of luck. This happens a lot in Callanca and in Perú. There aren’t strong laws to protect people from outrageous and unscrupulous business practices and even if there were they wouldn’t protect women because women often aren’t considered people.

I also got a dose of reality in attempting to solicit funds for a trip to an artisan’s fair in Lima. The artisan’s wrote a “solicitud” to the municipalidad requesting money to pay for two bus tickets. I know the alcalde (mayor) so I believed that he would approve the funding or that if he didn’t we’d hear about it promptly and we’d be able to raise the money by other means. But here’s how events unfolded:

Monday. My friend Gregorio in Callanca tells me not to bother going to Monsefú with my petition. The Mayor won’t be there. Gregorio and some other Regidores (City Councilmen) are having lunch with him to talk about Monsefu’s anniversary celebration two weekends from now. I should go to speak with him on Wednesday. On Wednesday I show up at the Municipality. The Mayor is not in. But Belisa, his secretary, accepts the petition and tells me to come back on Friday to talk to the Mayor. I return on Friday at 9.30 AM. Belisa tells me that the Mayor is not in. I should come back in the afternoon. In the afternoon I return and the Mayor is in. But instead of taking me to speak with him Belisa carries the petition to his office and returns two minutes later with the document signed and stamped. That was easy. Although I’m not sure why I had to be present for it to happen. Now for the money. Belisa ushers me upstairs to Administration and hands the petition to Jacki, the Administrator’s secretary. Jacki looks it over and shows it to the Administrator who looks it over and tells me to come back on Tuesday for the money. First the Adminstrator must approve the expenditure. Fine, no problem. I can wait a few days, what’s the hurry as long as I know I’m getting the money? So I return the following Tuesday morning at 9.30 AM. A guard at the door to the Municipality tells me that no one is working today. It’s a “feriado”, a holiday. I should come back tomorrow, Wednesday. On Wednesday I show up at Administration at 9.15 AM. The Administrador is not in. I should come back at noon or anytime before 3.00 PM. They go to lunch at 3.00. At 12.30 PM I return to Administration. Jacki is not in but the Administrator is. He asks me leave the bus tickets on Jacki’s desk and come back on Friday. Then he leaves for a meeting with the Mayor and some other officials to talk about Monsefú’s anniversary celebration on Saturday. This time I’m not so easily put off. I’m not about to leave the bus tickets—which I’ve purchased with my own money, having been assured that the Municipality will reimburse me—laying on somebody’s desk. I’ll never see them again. So I sit down in the Administrator’s office and wait for Jacki to return. When she does I politely ask if there’s a way that we can resolve this matter today, right now. She picks up the bus tickets and examines them. She tells me to have a seat and wait. When the Administrator returns from his meeting with the Mayor they exchange whispers. Jacki returns to her desk and begins painstakingly to type information into her computer. It’s clear from the questions she’s asking me that had I left the bus tickets she’d have had no idea whatsover to whom they belonged, how many people were ticketed to travel to Lima, what their names were or when we were leaving or why. She asks me for a copy of the petition. By now I’m not leaving anything to chance so I’ve brought a copy. I don’t bother to ask what happened to the signed and stamped copy that Belisa and I brought her last week. An hour later Jacki has filled out the paperwork and prints a copy. This is it, I think. Now I get the money. But the Administrator is leaving again. I ask him as he exits if he wouldn’t mind signing the paperwork so that we could conclude this business immediately. “But it’s very late,” he tells me, and leaves for lunch. It’s 2 PM. When I remind Jacki that she’d told me they’d be in the office until 3.00 Jacki shrugs. She says that I should come back tomorrow. Tomorrow comes and this time I don’t waste 4 soles traveling for nothing from Callanca to Monsefú and back. I call Jacki and ask if the Administrator has signed the document. He isn’t in yet. I call again. Not in. And again. This time he was in but has now left. Finally it becomes clear to me that in Perú nothing happens unless you show up personally and wait for it to happen. Then it probably won’t happen anyway but at least there’s a modicum of hope. I try out this concept on Jacki. She eagerly agrees. I should come tomorrow. In person. The next day I arrive at 9.00 AM with my laptop and some Peace Corps forms that have to be filled out for the artisan’s fair, figuring that I’ll be waiting, perhaps for hours, in the Administrator’s office for him to show up. Sure enough the Administrator is not in. I chat for awhile with Jacki and another secretary, Dagra. Dagra tells me that Jacki is a “soltera” and looks slyly at Jacki. Maybe if I marry her I can get the 200 soles for the bus tickets. While I wait five or six other people come in and ask if the Administrator has arrived and wander out when they’re told he hasn’t. Jacki asks me for the bus tickets. Again, although she’s already seen them, I’ve made sure to bring them along. She leaves for awhile to photocopy the tickets. She returns, hands me the photocopy and the document authorizing the payment and tells me to go talk to the Treasurer. The Treasurer will give me the money. I go to the Treasurer’s office. The Administrator is there. As he leaves I shake his hand and thank him for his support of the artisans of Callanca. Several other poor souls are waiting outside the Treasurer’s office and they whisper to him humble solicitations of funds to resolve their own personal or professional hardships, all much more dire than my own or so I gather from what I overhear. The Treasurer invites me in. Her name is Zairita. I hand Zairita the paperwork. Now the money! She discusses the paperwork with a coworker and says that I will have to come back on Tuesday with the President of the artisan’s association. Tuesday not Monday because Monday is a feriado. On Tuesday she will give me a check made out in the name of the President of the association. We leave on Wednesday for the fair.

On Saturday I attend the parade in Monsefú, the festivities celebrating the anniversary of its founding that I’ve heard so much about during this bus-ticket odyssey. It turns out that I’m actually a part of the parade. I march with the delegation from Callanca. Callanca is a part of the district of Monsefú. It is located in the district of Monsefú (which is also the name of a town in the district of Monsefú), in the province of Chiclayo (which is also the name of a city in the province of Chiclayo), in the department of Lambayeque (which is also the name of a city in the department of Lambayeque), and in the the nation of Perú. There are no cities or towns named Perú in the nation of Perú as far as I know. The delegation from Callanca has been assembled by Rita Ayasta, the director of the Fundación Turner-Pisfil, a private school in Callanca. Rita was recently elected mayor of the district of Monsefú and will begin her term in January. Our transportation from Callanca stood us up so we have ridden from Callanca to Monsefú in the back of a cattle truck. During the parade we march behind another truck bearing a stack of four speakers and a gasoline generator that powers a sound system blasting the same marinera tune over and over again for two-and-a-half hours at a volume that will leave me with a measurable amount of permanent hearing loss I’m sure. I can only imagine what it’s doing to the poor guy sitting in the back of the truck running the sound system.

The parade is spectacular. Our delegation includes twenty or thirty tiny children dressed up in marinera (a dramatic Peruvian dance of courtship) outfits, their mothers, half a dozen teachers from the foundation, a truckful of vegetables symbolizing the fruits of the labor of the average callancano, and a donkey and cart loaded with artesanía and ceramic cooking vessels that symbolize Callanca’s traditions and indigenous past. The mayor-elect and I and several mothers including the mother of Enrique Pisfil, one of the founders of the Fundación, carry a school banner and, as we pass, onlookers along the parade route pelt us with rice, sequins and candy. It becomes uncertain as I watch the enthusiasm with which the mayor-elect is greeted whether our participation in this event is motivated by civic pride or whether Rita in fact has organized a political rally at the expense of the Fundación.

The parade ends at 6.30 but I don’t make it back to Callanca until 9.00. First Rita, always the consummate politician, hands out free vegetables from the back of a Mitsubichi pickup that has taken part in the parade. The beets and carrots and tomatoes and lettuce were on display to symbolize Callanca’s agricultural heritage but they’re now serving just as graphically to demonstrate another cultural inheritance—candidates and officials dispensing food or cash in exchange for votes or political loyalty. The One Bag of Free Rice, One Vote mandate as I like to call it. After all the produce has been hauled off we find that the battery of Pedro’s Mitsubishi pickup, the vehicle which is supposed to take us back to Callanca, has died and once we push-start the truck we then have to load the burro into the back. Since the pickup was used in the parade it bears a gigantic billboard fixed to the roof of the cab and so as we exit Monsefú a friend bearing a six-foot-long pole has to precede us and use the pole to lift electrical wires criss-crossing the street to a height that allows the truck and billboard to pass underneath. Then we have to stop on the road out of town at Rita’s house and take apart the billboard and leave it with her. Which leaves me wondering why we didn’t just dismantle it back in Monsefú instead of inching our way out of town while Julio dodged and cursed the cars and mototaxis that were whizzing past the truck and poled us block to block like a Venetian gondoleer suffering from vertigo. Once we’ve stored the billboard and boarded the truck again Pedro’s wife calls to ask where he is and what the hell he has really truly been doing. Pedro tries to hand me the phone so that I can explain to his wife that he isn’t out drinking but she hangs up before I can get a word out of my mouth. All in all it has been a quintessentially Peruvian evening. If it’s supposed to take half an hour it takes two hours and if it’s supposed to take two hours it takes six.

And what happened on Tuesday? you ask. Did I get the money? You bet I did. All of it, even though it’s accepted that, here in Perú, whenever you’re due money from any government official you should expect to receive only half the money as the other half will end up in the official’s pocket. However this time being a pain-in-the-ass gringo seems to have paid off. Really I have no idea whether my perseverence hurt or helped or made no difference at all. Perhaps it would’ve turned out exactly the same had I just sat at home in Callanca and waited. At any rate, Martha, the president of the artisan’s association, and I showed up at the Municipalidad at 1.00 PM, waited about 45 minutes, and the treasurer called us in, asked Martha to sign five or six copies of various forms, presented her with an inkpad and instructed her to affix her fingerprint to one of the forms, and handed her the check. Then we stood in line for another 45 minutes at the bank waiting to cash it.

In the U.S. it’s an insult to make four, five or even two trips to an official’s office to clear up one matter. We consider our time to be valuable and we consider it a sign of respect to take up as little of an official’s time as possible. In the U.S. it’s one visit, get a yes or no answer, and then all the paperwork gets filled out and signed behind the scenes when nothing else is going on. But in Perú it’s the opposite. It’s a sign of respect to keep showing up over and over and over and over and over again at an official’s office and when you’re not present making sure that paperwork gets filled out and that forms get signed then paperwork does not get filled out and forms do not get signed. And by the way, since most of you are Americans, sorry for taking up so much of your time. Just be glad you weren’t reading this in Perú. Instead of half an hour it would have taken you two days.

Rita giving away parade decorations.

Logotipos

You haven’t lived until you’ve tried to design a logo for persons who have never before in their lives seen a logo. Or who think they haven’t. Of course they’ve seen hundreds, thousands, but they’ve never given any thought to what a logo is for or what value it might have.

Come to think of it, how much value, in fact, does a logo have?

At any rate, as part of my work as a Peace Corps small–business development volunteer, I’m now in the business of designing logos for small businesses here in Callanca, Perú. I’ve designed three very attractive logos but I’ve yet to get any response in return beyond inquisitive stares. Until my arrival, the concept of publicity in Callanca has been to cram as much information and as many images on a business card as will possibly fit and then to add 5 more images and 30 more bulleted items to that count.

I’ve designed logos for two artisans’ associations and for one restaurant. The restaurant really interests me due to the fascinating and soap opera–like elements to the story behind its existence. The restaurant is operated by three sisters, Juana, Marlene and Manuela. Their father and brother still own and previously operated the restaurant. However, two years ago they joined an evangelical church here in Callanca and, due to the zeal with which they approached their new-found faith, began to neglect the restaurant. Even worse, they refused to serve beer or chicha. In Callanca, this is roughly equivalent to refusing to offer tartar sauce in a seafood restaurant. Fortunately, the three sisters remain staunchly catholic and serving liquor doesn’t seem to violate any of the precepts of their religious faith.

So the three sisters are taking over the restaurant and changing the name from El Buen Samaritano: el Primer Restaurante Campestre Cristiano de Callanca (The Good Samaritan: the First Christian Country Restaurant in Callanca) to Las Tres Hermanas (The Three Sisters). Good move, girls.

Perú’s is still a decidedly macho society and the thought of three women running a restaurant in Callanca is mildly revolutionary. In Callanca the men love nothing better than to get shit-faced on Brahma beer and chicha and go looking for a woman to beat up. So I’m feeling good about supporting Juana, Marlene and Manuela. In addition to designing their logo I helped them come up with a list of possible names for the restaurant and suggested that they let their customers help select the name via a popular vote.

In Callanca working in small-business development generally requires this type of personal approach. I’ve tried organizing meetings of interested businessmen for the purpose of presenting workshops on basic business principles. Generally three people show up and those three show up an hour late, accompanied by scrawny dogs and a daughter or niece who opens her blouse in the middle of my presentation and begins to suckle her infant. But I’ve had very good success going to the homes or businessplaces of people who’ve expressed an interest in improving the prospects of their businesses. I’ve helped artisans determine a fair price for their artesanía by means of startlingly innovative approaches like adding together the cost of materials and the value of wages earned during the time devoted to producing an object of art, tacking on a 20% profit, and fixing a price based on these calculations. I’ve visited the workshop of a mechanic who fixes motorcylcles and mototaxis and helped him come up with a business plan that takes into account the future changes in transportation norms likely to occur in Callanca due to population increases, the lengthening of the paved section of road that traverses Callanca, and the influx of automobiles and public transportation accompanying the changes mentioned and the resulting transformation of Callanca from a comminity dependent upon one form of transportation—motos—to a community utilizing many forms of transportation—cars and microbuses and trucks and taxis in addition to motorcyles and mototaxis.

All this has been great fun since, instead of standing in front of a white board with a dry marker in my hand, I’ve been able to visit people in their homes and businesses and see how they live, share whatever they’re having for lunch, and better understand the exact circumstances under which their businesses operate. I’ve never been much of a professor type and I have a lot more success dealing with people as individuals rather than trying to motivate people en masse. Were I the epitomy of evil I’d be Charlie Manson not Adolf Hitler.

However, sometimes I wish I were an Environment or Water and Sanitation volunteer rather than a Small-business Development volunteer. There are a great number of very basic needs and there is a great deal of poverty in Callanca. People living in mud houses with dirt floors and roofs made out of sticks and straw. People drinking water they haul from ditches in buckets. People who eat rice and potatoes with boiled chicken feet three times a day. There’s no sense in Callanca or in Perú that one can start with nothing and through hard work and resolute determination rise from a less prosperous to a more prosperous economic class. Instead there’s a sense that one sure as shit better work hard and better work with grim determination or one will starve to death or die of dyssentery or cholera. Although they don’t appear much like philosophers callancanos could teach Immanuel Kant himself a thing or two about the philosophy of determinism. There’s a nearly universal belief here that nobody in power will help you, that no amount of effort will make anything better, that nothing you could ever possibly do would ever change your fate one whit. So you find very few people willing to try out new ideas or take risks or get very excited about anything at all. That’s what makes people like Barco, the mototaxi mechanic, and Juana, Marlene and Manuela, the restarateurs, so inspiring.

Complacent, resigned, beaten down, beaten up, cynical, skeptical, apathetic, inert, hurt, betrayed, cheated, swindled, bewildered, lied to, shit on, misled, mistreated, aggravated and exhausted. That’s your average callancano. And in general they feel that way for good reason. Nevertheless, they’re still able and willing for the most part to greet a newly arrived gringo—even a gringo wearing 80-dollar tennis shoes and carrying a laptop—with curiosity, respect and occasionally even a hint of optimism. Many believe that all gringos arrive with scads of money. So as a gringo it’s not unusual to find yourself in the middle of a discussion that you believed was about the weather or the relationship of your partner in conversation to other callancanos with the same last name and suddenly be asked about your “mensualidad”—how much money the Peace Corps pays you—or about how much you’re paying your host family to live with them or if the Peace Corps could provide a sum of money so that the questioner’s wife could plant and raise produce in his front yard. Not infrequently someone will just flat out ask you for cash. Fortunately, once the community recognizes that you’re not a tourist and that you’ll be living there for an extended period of time and once they see that you’re actually doing work every day, this line of questioning becomes less frequent. But it never really goes away. Peruvians think all gringos are rich. And compared to Peruvians we all are rich. For instance as Peace Corps volunteers living “under conditions of hardship, if necessary” and at an economic level “that enables them to maintain a modest but safe, healthy, and adequate lifestyle” we receive 1000 soles a month (about $300) from Peace Corps for food, housing and daily expenditures, while the monthly wage of the average Peruvian is about 550 soles a month. So as “volunteers” we’re making more than a Peruvian with a full-time job.

I’m “integrating” as Peace Corps likes to put it. That means that I’m now used to and not distracted by very natural, commonplace and necessary acts like breastfeeding during a PowerPoint demonstration or peeing in public against the side of a building. Every day I see at least one thing that shocks and disquiets me but most days I also see something that surprises and delights me. Sometimes the two things are the same thing. The two phenomena no longer seem to me to be mutually exclusive.

Cabritada

We slaughtered a goat this afternoon. It was an impressive sight. My friend Aldo sharpened a large kitchen knife and a short, blunt machete. The goat, a black one, lay on its side, its hooves tied together with a dirty, frayed piece of rope. Aldo knelt beside it and the rest of us pinned down various of the goat’s appendages. It struggled and bleated. Its brown tongue protruded from between its teeth. All of this was taking place inside a dirt patio in the house of Maximina, one of the artesanas with whom I work. Aldo’s son brought a small washpan and forced it underneath the goat’s neck. Aldo slit its throat with the kitchen knife and foamy blood from its jugular and larynx shot into the washpan, nearly filling it. Aldo kept sawing away at its neck until he’d cut entirely through the larynx and into the spine. There were puddles of blood and flecks of meat and bone in the dirt and a couple of dogs were lapping up the blood and some pullets were darting around, peeping, and pecking at the bits of bone and meat.

When the goat was completely still Aldo cut through the hide of one of its shanks and forced a short length of plastic tubing under the skin and blew into the tube to loosen the skin along the length of the leg. He did the same with its three other legs. Several other knives were brought out to the patio and sharpened. Aldo, Maximina and Aldo’s son started to skin the goat with the knives. Aldo slid the knife between the belly and the skin quickly, efficiently and expertly without puncturing the hide and without damaging the meat. The blade slipped between the meat and the skin and the skin peeled away leaving large patches of white fat interrupted by reddish gashes of exposed muscle, which continued to twitch along the ribcage, above the heart of the now headless animal.

When they’d skinned the entire carcass Aldo cut open its anus and carved out the rectal area and then split apart the ribs with the machete and pulled out the organs and the huge bloated white sack of its stomach and manhandled them into a washtub. Then he cut off the hooves, threaded a rope between the remaining bones of the two forelegs, and hoisted the carcass into a short, thick, white tree growing in the patio. He washed down the carcass with a bucket of water and meanwhile three women took the washtubful of entrails out into the back yard. First they salvaged the heart, liver, kidneys and some other organs that I was having trouble identifying. Then they unwound the intestines, cut them away from the stomach, and began to chop them into short segments. They squeezed greenish shit out of each segment and then poured water through it to cleanse it. Then they ran a stick through each segment and scoured the interior of the gut by bunching it along the stick, washed it a second time and dropped it into a washpan of fresh water that one of the women had brought from the well. As they cleaned the segments of intestine nearer the stomach the green shit they emptied from the length of intestine began to retain its solidity and texture, that of clumps of grass. Finally they cut open the stomach, which emitted a foul odor of partially digested vegetation, and emptied its copious contents into a ditch that ran behind the house. Someone kicked a dog that had been manuevering about, trying to rob scraps, and the dog yelped and skulked away. They cleaned the stomach, whose lining looked like shaggy wet fleece, and threw it into the washpan with the tripe.

When we went back inside Aldo was hacking up the carcass with the machete. The pullets were underfoot, peeping and pecking at splinters of bone. Some guinea pigs were scurrying around on the floor of a pen made of stacked bricks. In Perú we eat guinea pigs, too. The women had begun to cook the tripe and Edith, another of the artesanas, and María, a woman with several gold front teeth, were washing the hunks of meat that Aldo had hacked apart and cutting them into individual portions. Earlier Aldo had split the carcass in half and had weighed each half with a spring scale and each half had weighed 11 kilos. That meant that the goat had rendered nearly fifty pounds of meat and bone.

The goat will be served tomorrow at a “cabritada”—a fundraising effort for the group of artisans with which I’m working.

Andrea Campos Sánchez

Callanca looks like one of those towns that Clint Eastwood rode into to kill a few people in The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. Though it isn’t pretty and at times not even hospitable, I’m learning to love it. They tell me that all Peace Corps volunteers eventually develop this inexplicable and unreasonable attraction to their sites. It’s the same desperate state of mind that results in the phenomenon of hostages falling in love with their captors. If someone had offered me the deal I’ve got here in Callanca six months ago, I’d have laughed in their face, told them they were crazy and stayed put in Northampton, Massachusetts. But in light of what I’ve learned to expect and to appreciate since, I’m more than satisfied.

The one thing I really miss is good coffee. Judith send me a letter with a three-pack of Starbucks instant coffee inside and I almost wept with joy.

One of my friends responded thusly to an e-mail of mine that mentioned I was working in small-business development: “I wonder what you actually do all day to promote business development… “ Excellent question. There actually are some business opportunities here in Callanca. There are 15 or so “restaurants campestres” here and the restaurants need publicity—logos, signs, brochures; menus translated into English. They need training in how to keep hair out of the food and scrawny dogs and cats out of their kitchens. Handwashing 101 wouldn’t hurt, either. “Capacitación” we call that. All the businesses in town—bodegas to zapaterías—need to learn to smile at people and offer something more than every other bodega and zapateria in Perú offers.

My host mom runs a bodega (a general store with a walkup window) and when a customer comes up to the window to ask for something one of the kids screams ¡buscan! (“They want something!) and Margot eventually comes out of the kitchen yelling ¡dime! (Talk to me!) or ¿qué quiere? (What do you want!?). When they run out of a food item in the house they walk into the store and grab it and unwrap it and put it on the table. So basic accounting principles like don’t mix up your personal accounts and your business accounts are lacking. Yet almost everyone in Callanca has a cellphone and plenty of people have computers. So it’s a strange mix of the modern and the stone-age around here. As one of my Peace Corps friends quipped, “There are more flat-screen color TVs in my town than teeth.”

I’m also working with a group of artesans and we’re going to attend an art fair sponsored by the Peace Corps in November in Lima. This has turned out to be a boost for my reputation in town. It makes me look like I’m actually accomplishing something concrete. In order to raise the money for the trip we’re slaughtering a goat and selling tickets to a “cabridita” (that would mean something like “pig roast” except with a goat) for six soles each. My artesan’s group is also less than a mean fighting machine when it comes to business. Most of them are women who embroider items for traditional weddings held here in Callanca. The weddings last two or three days. On the first day the groom invites all the guests to his family’s house for a celebration of food and drink and dance that lasts from the afternoon until dawn the next day. The second day the bride invites the guests to her family’s house for a celebration of food and drink and dance that lasts from the afternoon until dawn the next day. The third day the groom invites all of his family’s friends to his family’s house and the bride invites all of her family’s friends to her family’s house for celebrations of food and drink and dance that last from the afternoon until dawn the next day. At some point in these marathon celebrations the bride’s and groom’s families and the godparents all receive beautifully embroidered alforja’s and paños and other hand-made gifts which they wear on the wedding day and then retain as keepsakes thereafter or sometimes make use of in their homes. The alforjas are hand-woven shoulder bags embroidered with peacocks or chickens or flowers or other traditional designs. The paños are hand-woven towels also embroidered with designs and commemorative details of the wedding—names and dates and good wishes.

The artesans I’m working with have traditionally produced these items on commission for engaged couples and their families but now will be producing them for purchase by the public as well. I designed the logo you see here for them (I photographed some embroidery by one of the artesanas) and am also teaching workshops on budgeting, costs and pricing, marketing, product design and related topics. Those of you who have seen the cigar box in which I kept the receipts for my own small business back in the States, rest assured that Peace Corps is helping out all of the small-business volunteers with these workshops—providing us with materials and advice. Much of the training I received during my first three months in the Peace Corps involved learning how to conduct such workshops.

That having been said, don’t let me mislead you. We’re at a very basic level of business acumen here. The two people I’m taking with me to the artesan’s fair in Lima have never traveled further than two hours from Callanca.

However, we have many positive things going for us. The group of artesans is called Asociación de Artesanas de Callanca Andrea Campos Sánchez, named for an artesana and brewer of chicha and proprietress of the first countryside restaurant (“restaurant campestre”) in Callanca. She was to have been one of the founding members of the group but on the day the group’s founding members met to draw up the papers for forming the association and registering it with the municipality, Andrea didn’t show up. Word reached the group that she’d died the night before. So the rest of the members of the group decided to name the association in her honor. For the art fair I hope to set up a series of pancartas (letter-size stand-up displays) that describes the founding of the group and illustrates how the artesanía has been traditionally used and how it reflects the rural, agricultural and family- and community-oriented nature of Callanca and of callancanos. The community has existed for nearly a thousand years so momentum is on our side.

On November 5, somewhere, Andrea Campos Sánchez will be knocking back a glass of chicha de jora in our honor and wishing us well in Lima. Assuming that she knows where Lima is.

Chicha de Rabanito

Things are getting exciting in Callanca. I’m already working. I’ve given four presentations before groups of Callancanos ranging from 20 to 100 people. My Spanish is improving daily due to the rigorous formal and informal workouts it’s been receiving. People are starting to recognize me on the street and call me by name. My name here is Carlos. Sometimes Carlitos or Carlucho. I’ve already been to a wedding, a funeral and a birthday party. Here in Perú much cerveza accompanies all such gatherings. The cerveza here comes in 28-oz. bottles so there’s no kidding around. The custom is to use one bottle of beer and one glass and form a drinking circle. This can be a small circle of three or four people or a larger circle—an entire roomful of people. But generally there are many bottles of beer and many small circles and the circles intertwine from time to time so that everyone interacts with everyone else. The rules of the drinking circle are fairly rigid though the rules vary a bit from region to region. Here in Callanca, you accept the bottle and glass from the person to your right, fill the glass half-full, then pass the bottle to the person to your left. Then you drink. Then you dump the dregs and the foam onto the ground, the floor, or sometimes into a plate or onto a pile of napkins or into an abandoned glass, then you pass your empty glass to the person to whom you previously passed the bottle. You can also add a flourish to the act of passing the glass by rolling it between your palms to encourage the foam clinging to the inside of the glass to settle to the bottom before you dump it out. The drinking is serious stuff. I’ve seen groups of twenty people go through 8 cases (12 beers to a case) of 28-oz. bottles in a few hours. Don’t worry, I’m not participating in the entire marathon. Health-related excuses like diabetes work very well if you feel like retiring early from the festivities.

They also serve a home-brewed beer called chicha which is made from corn or grapes or just about any fruit or vegetable grown locally. They bottle it in 2-liter plastic bottles that previously contained Coke or the local favorite Inca Kola. They pass the bottle and the glass as described previously. There are couplets for the various flavors of chicha:

Chica de rabanito

Para que duermas con tu primito.

Radish chicha

It'll make you sleep with your cousin.

The food that accompanies these drinking binges is frequently outstanding. Pork, turkey, chicken, goat or fish—and occassionally the Pueruvian favorite, guinea pig—often smothered in a tantalizing sauce such as ocopa, a spicy peanut sauce. RIce and potatoes always come along for the ride. The food comes in a bowl with a soup spoon, which can be challenging when the meat is on the tough side. However, it isn’t considered bad manners to pick up the meat and gnaw at it like a starved animal. In fact it’s expected. If you’re lucky someone will pass you a roll of toilet paper and you can clean up afterward.

But I think I said I’ve been working, didn’t I? I met with the artesano association’s board of directors and next week the association (15 artesanos) is going to show me what kinds of art its members have been producing and in November we’re hoping to attend an art fair sponsored by the Peace Corps at the U.S. Embassy in Lima. It’s a fair attended solely by associations working with Peace Corps volunteers. The artesans do beautiful embroidery (I saw some at the wedding I attended) as well as weavings, wicker furniture and other artesanía. I’m impressed with what I’ve seen so far of their art so far.

I’ve also been working with the community to arrange some basic services such as a police presence. Many families raise livestock and occasionally some rustling occurs. By coincidence, soon after my arrival, the municipality (the district government) assigned two policemen to Callanca. Though I didn’t really have anything to do with it, the fact that I’d been talking to so many people about security problems and promising to try to arrange for police protection made it seem as if the arrival of the police was partly my doing. Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good. Eventually I’ll be working more directly with farmers and with milk and meat producers in Callanca to analyze and (one would hope) improve their business practices.

Callanca is a small community, 1500 people in the town proper, so I feel that within a reasonable amount of time I can get a grip on the needs and priorities here. However there are no hard facts available in the form of records or statistics, so everything is based on the opinions of individuals and every individual has a different opinion. Estimates of the population, for instance, range from 1500 to 4000 depending upon whom you talk to. Elections are coming up in October and opinions also vary wildly as to who will win the race for the mayorship of the municipality. As I’ve mentioned previously, a former resident of Callanca and one of my counterparts—the Peruvians that help me navigate the complexities of business and government in Perú—is running for mayor. I’ve heard from some people that she’s leading and from others that she has no chance whatsover. So you tell me.

The efficacy of life with my host family can be equally difficult to ascertain. Margot, my host mother, complains endlessly about anything and everything. She’s bossy yet passive-aggressive—if that’s possible. She received a payment-overdue notice for tuition at the kids’ school and posted it on the wall in the dining room so that the rich gringo would be sure to see it. She sighs a lot. One of her main complaints is money. There’s never enough. In this she’s not unlike your average American mom. But unlike June Cleaver, she offers up picturesque tales of family financial disasters—robbery, car theft, extortion, fraud. Her exaggerations are laughable. Chicken costs 8 soles ($2.80) a kilo when in fact I know that it costs 6.50 soles. Fish costs 15 soles a kilo when in fact it goes for 8–13. The blanket on my bed cost 100 soles whereas I’ve seen them in Chiclayo for 40. So it’s hard to know where the truth stops and life according to Margot begins. However, she has raised four relatively charming (and two of them quite intelligent) kids. So she must not be all bad. My host dad, César, drives a mototaxi and according to Margot is the cause of all the family’s financial difficulties. I, on the other hand, appear to be the solution. However, so far I’ve turned down a request for a loan and have ignored all other subtle hints for financial assistance or rescue—the late notice posted above the dining-room table for instance.

I’ve discussed all this with the Peace Corps’ regional coordinator and she quickly authorized me to move. But I’ve decided to attempt to hang in there since the only real drawback to living with the family is Margot’s sour disposition.

Conditions are rugged in the house but certainly not unbearable. They fixed the toilet (see previous posting for the gory details) and it turns out that they have a septic system after all. Margot had told me that they did not. She probably thought that it had been stolen. So not only do we have a toilet but a toilet that flushes—which represents the heights of luxury in Callanca.

Living with a Peruvian host family is a bit like The Beverly Hillbillies in reverse. So I guess that would make it like Green Acres, wouldn’t it? (The above for those of you old enough to remember those two series.) The food situation is a complete mystery. For instance yesterday for breakfast we each had a fairly large plateful of chunks of pork, rice and raw onions. Today for breakfast we each had one cup of canned milk blended with strawberries and two pieces of bread. Most of the lunches consist of half a plate of white rice and something else. Maybe a couple of ounces of chicken or fish. Maybe some lentils or some cucumbers or tomatos in lime juice. The suppers generally arrive late, eight o’clock or so, and don’t consist of much. Last night we each had a bowl of soup. Milton, the 13-year-old, brought me a spoon from the kitchen and before he handed it to me dried it with his shirt-tail.

But I haven’t gotten sick yet. So it would seem that hygeine in the U.S. is ’way overrated.

The aforementioned is not intended to trash any aspect of my living situation, neither my life in the community nor my life with Margot, César, Milton, Pamela and Nicole. The only things that frustrate me are things that seem possible to change given a modest amount of effort. And according to the Peace Corps that’s what I’m here for—to encourage the modest amount of effort that change requires.

Of course as much of the change has to come from me as from Callanca. I would be the first to admit that to the Campos Figueroa I must surely seem eccentric if not insane. I prefer to drink beer from my own personal bottle. And most often I prefer to drink but one beer. I prefer fruit and vegetables to huge heaps of white rice. I eat with a fork and not a tablespoon. I like to spend maybe an hour a day alone. (Please.) When free food is available, like at a wedding or a birthday celebration, I don’t eat five platefuls and also squirrel away a sixth to take home with me to eat tomorrow for breakfast. I like to shower with warm water. I have developed the spendthrift habit of flushing every time I use the toilet. (I’m getting over that one.) I shave my head. I have a beard. I wear a cap. I floss my teeth. I use shaving cream. And deodorant. I drink water and tea with my meals instead of eating my meal and then drinking water or tea afterward. I drink whatever I please with my meal, be it hot or be it cold, whereas everyone knows that some foods are hot foods and that some foods are cold foods (regardless of their temperature or spiciness—it’s like ying and yang) and that you don’t drink hot drinks after you eat hot foods nor cold drinks after you eat cold foods or you will get very, very sick.

Clearly I have a lot to learn. Fortunately, I have two years to get it done.

Todos mis retos vienen de por dentro

I visited Callanca, my permanent site, the week of August 9. It’s a dusty, rural, mainly agricultural town of 1500 a half-hour from Chiclayo, the capital of the departamento of Lambayeque. It’s a community of basic block and brick houses most of which line the one paved road that runs the length of the town. It seems extremely impoverished; however, because many people are able to grow their own food, there’s probably less dire poverty than one would think. It will take some time for me to determine how much less.

It’s hardly a picturesque community so I think that during my two years there I will need look for sources of inspiration other than natural beauty. A river, the River Reque, runs to the north of town. It’s a short walk from my house and the river provides the only tranquil spot for leisurely contemplation that I’ve found so far. It seems that my host family will provide many of those other sources of inspiration that I mentioned above. The father, César, is a mototaxista. He drives one of the taxis, a hybrid of a motorcycle and a carriage, that transport Callancanos from the town to the Interamericana, the highway to Chiclayo, about two kilometers away. Margot, the mother, runs a bodega or general store from the house. The kids are Milton (13) and Pamela (7) and Nicole (5). A third daughter ran off to Lima with her boyfriend and thus there’s an empty room upstairs for me. It’s the nicest room in the house by far, with a ceramic tile floor and a large window that overlooks the town’s main street.

Things are quite basic, even rustic in the house. There’s a bathroom, however there’s no desagua (public sewer system) and no septic system either, so exactly where the effluent ends up is anybody’s guess. The toilet currently flushes by means of a bucket filled with water that one empties into the toilet after each use. The float mechanism in the tank is broken and the float is tied to a towel rack to maintain it in a position that (usually) prevents water from filling and overflowing the tank. The overhead light in the bathroom doesn’t work. Because of the aforementioned emission of effluent the drinking water in the house is contaminated with e coli and so we boil all the water for drinking and cooking. The whole family, all five of them, sleeps in one medium-sized bedroom downstairs.

In short, we’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.

It would appear that there are ample opportunities for me to do work in Callanca. Many of the farmers maintain restaurantes campestres, country restaurants, and use their own produce and meat to feed visitors from Lima who come to Callanca to dine on the weekends. The restaurants are quite pleasant with a lot of outdoor seating and views of the fields and a general summer-camp atmosphere. They serve cebiche, arroz con pato (duck and rice), cabrito (young goat) and many other local specialties. I sampled cabrito and it’s tender and quite tasty. One of my jobs as a small–business development volunteer will be to assist the restaurant owners in improving sanitation standards, client service, bookkeeping methods, publicity, etc.

There’s also a school, Fundación James D. Turner–Enrique Pisfil Villalobos, founded by an American and a Peruvian, with extremely modern facilities, including computers and internet, and I’ll be able to conduct classes and workshops for members of the community at the school and make use of the computers and internet for my work. The director of the school, Rita Ayasta de Díaz, is running for mayor of the district so if she wins I’ll have frineds in high places. She’s currently leading in the polls or according to whatever means that they determine candidates’ prospects in Perú. She was mayor once before so I think her chances are good.

Sometime next week I’ll be shopping for a mattress and bed, strapping them to the roof rack of a taxi, then a combi, and moving them to Callanca to furnish my room. Unlike in America, where locatng one’s business implies placing it someplace where no other such services exist, in Perú businesses cluster. So if you want a bed you go to Calle Cuglieván in Chiclayo and there are 5 or 10 furniture stores located one after another on the side of the street opposite the public market. So you can go from one store to the next and compare prices and haggle and get the best price without having to travel all over town.

The public market is a masterpiece. You can buy anything there, from running shoes and luggage to a sheep’s head or a chicken or a python skin with which to place a curse on the guy who sold you a lumpy mattress in the furniture store across the street. The market is a traditional bazaar as you’d picture existing in Turkey or Saudi Arabia. It’s a crowded labyrinth of individual stalls and narrow passageways that provides more exotic smells, chaotic activity and indeterminate noises in two or three square blocks than most of the five boroughs of New York. There are sections with stalls offering books and stationery products, vegetables, meat, fruit, shoes, jackets, pots and pans, locks and hardware, jeans, t-shirts, breakfast and lunch, and a special section offering herbs and medicinal plants and all the essentials of witchcraft and sorcery, including dried buzzard heads, crow’s wings, the claws, teeth and feet of animals associated with powerful healing or hexing properties, and brews like ayahuasca, an hallucinogenic elixir made from the boiled bark of a vine from the rainforest. Two hundred milliliters (6 oz. or so) costs 30 soles or about $10. Don’t worry, I didn’t partake.

It’s difficult to convey what it’s like coming from the U.S. to a third-world country and learning to conduct one’s everyday activities all over again from the ground up, plus do it all in a language with which one has until now been expected to use to only to check into a hotel or ask directions to the toilet. “Living at the level of the local population” as Peace Corps’ mission mandates often means waking up in the morning and finding sewage all over the floor of the bathroom (if you have a bathroom), wondering if whoever cleans up the sewage (if it isn’t you) will wash his or her hands before fixing breakfast for the family with which you’re living and dealing with the gastrointestinal consequences if that person did not and thereafter making your own immediate and urgent contributions to beginning the aforementioned unglamorous cycle all over again. Although people are intrigued by you nobody really understands you. You’re from Mars. You know the generic names for things you want and need but frequently not the specific local term for the item so you end up pantomiming and describing in convoluted language objects that you’re attempting to purchase—let’s say a two-pronged adapter for plugging in an electrical device with a three-pronged plug—and getting, instead of the adapter you wanted, the plastic cover for a wall outlet. I’ve made a lot of friends at the training center here in Chaclacayo and as we go out separately into all of Perú to seek our individual fortunes we’re beginning to say our good-byes. As I said to a group of friends last night as we sat around a table in the restaurant run by my host mother: “It’s been fun, guys. But I’m trading all of you in for intestinal parasites.”

I’ll be moving permanently to my site, Callanca, on August 23. It remains to be seen how reliable or fast or frequent my internet access will prove to be. But at the very least I should be able to post an occasional update from Chiclayo. I’m moving from Chaclacayo to Chiclayo. From the sound of it you’d think it won’t be so difficult an adjustment.